


As Lord Melbourne Understood

by rosncrntz



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8043517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: Lord Melbourne understands love as many things. But why is it so hard?





	As Lord Melbourne Understood

What is it to love?

Is it to steal a glance in an unthinking moment, only for it to be returned the instant it is realised, then to feel an aching void within, now that the moment has ended?

Is it to feel the ghosting hands still on your body, like the shadow of a thing that has gone, but the light pressure of another’s form is so vivid that you almost believe they are there?

Is it to stay awake with the moon and the sound of their voice in your head, and you curse their incessant prattling and wonder whether they will ever let you rest?

Is it to feel the light in the room magnify when they enter? Is it to smile only with them? Is it to know that they are the only one capable of hurting you?

These were the fibres of love, as Lord Melbourne understood them.

Love was the fear that she would feel his heart, thudding ceaselessly, in that moment they shared at the Coronation Ball. A hand, her hand, fell just where it beat, and he was made breathless by the thought of her noticing it. Through the cloth, through his ribcage, the quickening pace of it, in response to her eyes and her smile and her breath which he was convinced he could feel brushing his neck. If he did not love her, it would not be beating so. If he did not love her, he wouldn’t be afraid of her knowing. 

Love was the brush of their hands and the throbbing of the waltz doping his judgement. His hand resting on her back, his fingertips tracing the delicate weave of the silk gown. His feet feeling clumsy on the ground compared to hers which were as light as the heavens. Her chest rising and falling. Rising and falling. Rising and falling.

Love was the perfect match of wits. The speed of their conversations, the words flowing into the air around them, as they rode together in the brisk mornings. The twisted arms of leafless trees reaching over them, sheltering them from the wind as they walked side by side in endless coils of conversation.

Love was the pride. A girl of eighteen stooped low, not by her height, but by those around her. People around her thought her silly, incapable, and weak. But he saw her as intelligent, determined, and strong. She spoke with the voice of a man, to rooms of people desperate to undermine her, and it was a skill that Lord Melbourne found himself jealous of. She could be the Prime Minister, it would be no trouble for her, and he knew that she would be a far better Prime Minister than him. As a woman, not a girl of eighteen, she was unstoppable.

Love was the pain. The aching. That clenching of his throat, his empty lungs. Love was the evenings spent head in hands over a glass of brandy, trying to push those blue eyes out, trying to remember his wife who he still loved. He still loved. He loved. Love was the remembrance of her. Love was inconsistent. Love prompted him to both honour his wife and become besotted with another. Love was confusing. Love was agonising.

Love was the sacrifice. Love was knowing that she deserved better.

Love was in the walking away, in the letting go of hands, in the act of watching her cry. It hurt him, unimaginably. But he told himself he was making it better. They were not, he repeated to himself, they were not in the position to marry. Her heart was not his. He must never think her heart is his. She must keep it intact for someone else. Pure. When he leaned in close to her, holding her hands - which now seemed so cold - tightly in his, and he'd told her that she must not give her heart to him, he was unsure whether he was talking to her, or telling himself. 

Her mind was fervent, his was slowing. Her heart was tender, his was old. Her love was supple, his was used.

If these things were love, as Lord Melbourne understood they were, then he loved the Queen with everything he had.

And that was unbearable to consider.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very short and simple fic about Vicbourne, nothing too fancy-dancy. I'm accepting prompts as I'd like to do something a little more broad - so feel free to suggest as Vicbourne is everything to me at the moment!


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